


And If I only could I'd make a deal with God and I'd get him to swap our places

by mussings_over_tea



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Relationships Study, Violence, alex and nick are brothers in arms, also blatant STUCKY references, also there are weird metaphors again because that's just who i am, and spoilers for all Australia related matches and events in Sydney LOL, and then that AO draw happened and of course i love my chill, as writing about real people can be LOL AT SELF, australia run at the atp cup gave me so much shakesparean tragedy feels, but you know SLEEP DEPRIVATION SLAM BEGINS, i wanna write that The Winter Soldier au with these aussie bros, implied because this is what happened with them almost wining this thing, rafa and nick are only hinted (because that's how it works with this boy and me), this is as, this is what alex does to himself for the love of the country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22309414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mussings_over_tea/pseuds/mussings_over_tea
Summary: That’s why they are where they are now, everyone playing their part, a king, a jester and a lionheart. (or Team Australia fighting their battles during ATP Cup)
Relationships: Nick Kyrgios/Alex De Minaur, Nick Kyrgios/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	And If I only could I'd make a deal with God and I'd get him to swap our places

*

Alex is bleeding out. Nick thinks he can taste is on his tongue, watching him give his all, like ha always does. Leaving his beating heart out there. Fierce but vulnerable. Making Nick stare in awe but ache in guilt, too.

Evans has all the answers. He’s relentless. He’s inspired, like never before. Just like Nick is, surrounded by these people he loves and wants to fight for almost like it’s the battle for release, victory and glory in the ancient times. Alex stays locked in, following his every step, offering a punch for a punch, shielding himself or attacking when necessary. But to no veil. Evans does not step down, even though his body seems to be breaking into pieces. Even though Alex’s body remains steel on the surface. Nick has a feeling they’ve set Alex up, after Shapovalov, after already drawing his blood into this ritual sacrifice so that he could be here and please the home crowd, so that he could be lifted into the pedestal of their savior afterwards for that.

The metallic feeling on his tongue tastes like guilt and resolve. He’s cheering, he’s hoping, he’s playing every ball with Alex. But he’s already made a decision. Because he already knows how this particular sacrifice ends. Alex is a giant, but losing another break point, inexorable, unyielding, but ultimately staying behind he seems frail and vulnerable. A sacrificial lamb to please the roaring crowd.

After Nick’s dead body.

*

“We need to go out there. I need to go out there, for him, for all of us,” Nick stops Lleyton on their way to the team room, letting the rest go through the corridor.

“Peers and Gucci’s got it, mate,” Llleyton looks tired, sympathetic, but there’s definite tone in his voice. Protectiveness over Alex. The same kind of devotion to this soldier on the front line fighting till his last breath, always fighting, never giving up.

A king and his lionheart.

They pause in the corner, with a pool table there and a vending machine, the rest of the team heading for the room. Nick looks into Lleyton’s eyes with urgency or a plea, or something in between. “Maybe. But it’s not their fight,” beseeching him with the truth. Guilt still thick on his tongue. Because he’s asking for cutting the throat of that lamb. For cutting this lionheart out for it to bleed even more.

Lleyton’s face flashes with anger. A king possessive of his knight. His best knight. His crowning jewel. “We’re a team. What we do here is team effort. There is no theirs or yours, Nick,” his voice is sharp but his eyes are crystal blue beaming with loyalty, beaming with care for each and everyone here. It only stirs Nick’s reassurance.

With this captain, they can do everything.

Even if it means bleeding themselves dry.

Lleyton continues, almost rebuking. “He’s exhausted. He’s drained. And we gotta assume we move on and then what? There’s Spain on the horizon.”

Lleyton Hewitt has always been hard working and thorough, but a strategist. A rare ability to combine focusing on one ball at the time but anticipating next moves to the exact extent not to shake your game. Nick longs after this. That’s perfect balance. This is what wins you slams. This is what Alex has. This is what Nick lacks. That’s why they are where they are now, everyone playing their part, a king, a jester and a lionheart.

Spain. Nick saw the draw. Nick pushed the volcano of feelings aside for only those that matter. Worry and ache for home and love and devotion to his team. He feels the heat inside him stir into life now. Dormant creature. Dragon-like. Roaring fire at the bull in sight. (Roaring resentment, jealousy and disturbing need, Nick never ponders long enough to call the need by its name). He clenches his hand, physically fighting the creature inside, trying to speak, trying not to growl. Not now. Later.

“This is now. This is GB and it’s more than just this match. True. It’s that we lost to them before. It’s about being home, now. But it’s about all these kids looking up to him like he’s a superhero. Because he is. Let’s prove it, now,” Nick sounds like he’s already on fire. But it’s not dragon speaking. It’s a brother. It’s a comrade. There’s love in his voice. Not rage.

Lleyton ponders it for a moment. Struggles with himself. Reaches for Nick’s arm with faith and reassurance and tells him. “We didn’t lose to Great Britain, Nick. They just won,” and Nick beams at that, Lleyton’s hand like iron, freshly heated, making him glow in resolve, too.

This is allowance. This is a call to arms.

Even if guilt underlies it. Because there is no victory without a slaughter. There is no glory without the blood of the innocent.

*

Alex is not in the team room. No. He’s in the corner of the gym, outside the reach of the cameras. Wearing gold and green. (Proud.) Clinging to his skin in sweat like blood he poured out. (But in pieces.) Sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his legs. Small and frail.

A lionheart revealed as the lamb. They are willing to give up for greatness.

Nick feels like chocking. The guilt has a taste now. Reminding Nick of the air back home. As suffocating.

“Hey, kiddo,” he manages to sound strong. His voice doesn’t break under the thick weight of emotions.

Alex looks up, his face skeletal, his face the picture of exhaustion, but his eyes shine brightly. There’s still relentlessness in him burning bright. Because he never loses. No. The others sometimes win. Until his turn comes.

“Be right there. Just gotta shower,” he sounds like a child explaining why he’s late for a dinner. Nick hurts inside. Wants to go to his knees for Alex. Wants to cradle him in his arms. Plead forgiveness. But Alex wouldn’t want that. Alex is a warrior, through and through and so he will bleed willingly for gold and green renown. And they will let him.

“You bet your ass you will, brother,” Nick doesn’t bring himself down, for them to hang on the edge of resignation. He reaches with his hand at Alex instead, to lift him up (into the pedestal of the local hero, where he rightfully belongs). “We’re going out there. And we’re taking the fight back to them. And we’re winning this tie to take us straight to semi finals,” the words pour out automatically, even if each one cuts him. Like that dagger he’s sinking into the lamb. Seeing the light in Alex’s eyes grow blinding (maybe even manic) makes him choke on the last sentence, voice breaking. “You with me?”

Alex’s hand clasping his, as he’s lifting himself up (raised into the monument, raised onto the altar of sacrifice) feels like a hand of a little boy blindly seeking trust and support of an oppressor. And the words that follow are a punch to his stomach. “Till the end of the line, you punk.”

*

Nick forgets all about blood just spilled on that battlefield. They are soaring out there Invincible. Even if they stumble, one look at Alex, one word from him (reassuring nudge, teasing jest) reminds Nick of the purpose. Glory awaits. Freedom for his home, too. And maybe they can save the lamb along the way.

Alex looks strong. Moves fast. Manufactures shots that make Nick flutter in pride and adoration. That push him further, deeper, more, stronger into the game, too.

They move in each other’s spaces so well. The air is sizzling with connection, like they don’t need words. Lleyton’s there, fierce and cheering, a king taking full responsibility for his knights, a king sending a jester with his best warrior to win them the crown back in the act of faith and hope. It fuels Nick. This trust. This devotion. He fights for it, to prove it. He fights for Alex, to be the superhero. And he fights for home to know peace again.

And so they win. Alex feels light in his arms. Dear and precious. Nick carries him like the anointed one. Because he is. The local hero. The savior. The wonder kid. There is no blood. Not on the outside. Not yet. There is sweat and tears, Nick tracks with his mouth when they hug. A butterfly of a kiss on the forehead. A blessing. A gratitude. A tribute in worship. Alex’s so high on their victory he doesn’t notice. Maybe. Or doesn’t mind. Hands holding onto Nick’s arms ( _yes, lean onto me, yes, draw strength from me_ ), trusting, seeking, accepting.

Nick feels infinite and he deludes himself into thinking Alex is too. With him. As they are intoxicated with rich ambrosia of glory.

But glory often hides hubris that grows from within like poisonous mould.

*

It’s eerily quiet in the team room. They have all left. The heroes of the day remaining to recuperate. Nick’s praying they can. Watching Alex like a hawk now. When the adrenaline is leaving their system. Looking for winces of pain. Looking for that blood pouring out on the outside now.

They sit on the opposite sites, Alex is leaning against the wall, eyes closed, breaths calm, like he’s dosing off. Nick slouches on the bench in front of him, alerted and focused. Alex’s mouth is moving. Maybe he’s praying, too.

_Deliver us. Show us the way. Don’t leave us in this darkness._

They’ve made their sacrifice. Surely, He will listen.

“Nick?” it sounds blasphemous. His name. He’s the oppressor, isn’t he? The lamb is calling for like for a deliverer.

“Yeah?” there’s distance between them but the words feel like an attempt of touches. Hands seeking each other in reassurance. _You’re here? Always._

“I wouldn’t want to do this tie with anyone else, too,” Alex’s eyes are opened now. Looking into Nick intently. With gratitude. With trust. With loyalty.

Nick looks away. Stands up Goes to a shower. Runs away. But not after saying his piece of the play (the scene is set, the puppets are ready). “Till the end of the line, right, jerk?”

Feeling nauseas. Dirty. Disgusted.

Alex is thanking him for the killing blow. And Nick is letting him.

*

The next day Nick pretends to be watching the screens with matches replays during their morning routine at the gym. But his eyes chase Alex’s every move. Hunting down frailty behind strength, discomfort behind focus.

“Five more, don’t get distracted, okay?” Ash nudges him to lift more. The sound of his voice more and more often resembles a buzzing mosquito. It makes the surface of Nick’s skin itch. Like that pestering insect already left its bite. And it spreads. It’s been spreading for a while now.

“Don’t sweat me, okay?” Nick mocks his voice, wondering what’s happened. When did they become codependent and hateful.

Or he did.

Ash looks apologetic and tired. Nick thinks this relationship has become such a mirror of what he feels for tennis. Sometimes he can’t stand looking at Ash. He can’t listen to his voice. Without wanting to break things, to yell, till he’s numb. And other times he can’t seem to function without him. The only clear purpose to his life. Like he knows nothing else.

Nick’s finishing up, stealing glances at Alex doing his later lunge. He looks focused. He looks like made of steel. Except for those who know what scars they induced, what lengths they dragged him to.

He doesn’t complete the round. There’s a moment of pause, when Nick sees him wince, massaging his stomach and leaving for the bottle of water. Seemingly casual. Seemingly unaffected.

Nick feels sick. He hastily puts the weights away, grunting at Ash to _fucking leave him_ and rushes out of this room, this prison of truth and guilt. Escapes from the responsibility of them both.

*

He watches Rafa’s match in his room. Alone. Pretending. Isolated with only this turmoil of emotions he always has inside (the dragon growls, ready to strike, ready to kill the bull). He clutches his phone and acts like he’s assessing the strategy. Thinking about Lleyton’s words pragmatically. As a dry commentary not a thrilling narrative.

Spain’s next. What then?

What then?

Goffin is fast. Sneaky and creative. Goffin is on a mission to take on green and gold, on their home soil. Rafa doesn’t look good out there. Watching him move, slow, slower, but always with purpose, intelligence and commitment to every ball stirs the palette of emotions. Annoyance, awe and unnamed need. He’s resilient. He’s in the game. But he falls behind, he stumbles and loses.

No.

It never looks like he loses. Goffin just wins.

And so the relief should follow. And so the absolution maybe too. They won’t have to feed the bull with the lamb in the end. They won’t have to spill more blood for glory.

But it doesn’t. There’s tension and impatience in Nick. His palms sweaty. Because it’s never the end with Rafa, until last minute, until last moment. Nick knows it. And Nick’s waiting for it to happen, to make it clear, to make it definite.

Of course Rafa plays the deciding doubles and of course he leads them to victory.

The relief never comes, with combination of frustration, ache and want prevailing, instead. Buzzing inside Nick to be released, to be faced. Nick doesn’t. He throws the phone away, refusing to watch Rafa’s beaming face.

Triumphant but earned joy.

It always is with him. Hard work, dedication, paid off.

He distracts himself with computer games and avoids the team meeting till Johnny’s spamming him with messages (the notification alert loud and intrusive in his head till he can’t just ignore it).

_Corrida de torros, ay? Ready to settle that score?_

Doesn’t John know? He’s just a jester. A jester doesn’t get to kill the bull. A jester entertains the crowd before the main event.

Still the dragon inside him rumbles with words. _But he’s mine._

*

He would be. Maybe the jester would face the bull. If it weren’t for the fucking reporters.

“Is De Minaur ready to take on number one?”

Nick boils inside. Because of the truth. Or because of guilt. Or maybe both. He also boils because Alex is the epitome of athlete. The gladiator glory on their arena and they still doubt, they still poke him with contempt and ignorance. A wonder kid. Not a triumphant warrior.

“He’s as ready as anyone. He’s the best Australian tennis player. He’s number one here, so. That’s the stupidest fucking question ever,” and so Nick lets the anger out (even if the truth whimpers beneath the growls, even if guilt cries out, too).

It’s settled then. Even if they were nursing the alternative, the gauntlet has been thrown out and Alex’s honour is on the line. The challenge, or a taunt, like whips to his already bleeding out scars. And Nick can only watch and Nick can only cheer for more.

Fuck.

Later on in the diner they watch each other with Lleyton across the hall. Lleyton’s filling up his coffee mug and Nick’s already digging in, pasta tastes like paper though. His stomach is filled with worry and bitterness. Envy and frustration. He’s homesick, too and thinks about safety of everyone and his family all the time.

Lleyton’s face is tentative and thoughtful, too, when he approaches Nick by the table.

“He’s not ready. Not after everything. Fuck this, it kills me to say it, but it’s true,” Nick grunts, ashamed, angry. He hates the sound of these words out loud. He wants to keep them inside. Hidden. Within pretences. He’s not entirely sure what he means. What these words are painted with. Regret for pushing Alex like that? Or possessiveness of that dragon? Or everything.

“And you are?” Lleyton’s expression betrays nothing. But there’s depth in the statement, brimming with their history with Nadal. Unnamed needs that always bleed out when they play. Nick is skinned alive then and you can see deep into the rawest core of his.

Like Alex is now. Because he’s left everything, he’s wrung dry.

“Johnny can handle Bautista. Easy peasy. And I will. I am. I am ready. There’s so much at stake, it’s different. It feels different,” is he referring to his motivation, to his tennis, to his overblown feud with Nadal? He’s picking up on food, avoiding Lleyton’s piercing blue eyes. Seeing into his reasons more than he dares to define them himself.

“Maybe it would work. Before. Not in Sydney. Not after that presser. And not with Alex. He kills himself, before he withdraws. And it’s home. It matters so much more to him,” Lleyton’s voice is matter-of-factly. He’s been playing this game for a long time. Sometimes it’s about physical sacrifices, but more often than not it’s about mental chess game, too. And those scars are the worst to heal. You can carry metal inside you boosting your body to recover from the battles you’ve won. But how do you treat and forget that guilt?

“What about Oz Open? He’s fucking bleeding out out there. There’s bound to be the price?” Nick stands up, pushing the plate away (the food’s cold anyway and now he thinks like throwing up). His skin feels like it has scales. Like he’s transforming. Ready to breathe fire. To protect Alex or to consume the bull?

“That’s sport, kiddo. Any sport. You make a decision. You win. You get defeated. But you never lose. Him not going out there would be losing, Nick,” Lleyton takes a sip of his coffee and Nick thinks about knocking it off his hand. Flashes of lighting behind his eyelids. Flashes of red making his skin buzz like he does transform into creature of fury. Lleyton seems so unphased. Untouched.

Years of experience. Years of making these decisions and paying the price.

It doesn’t change the fact their hands are bloody from moving pieces on this particular chess board.

“How much more he can take? How much more he can carry? Fuck. This is on us,” his throat burns and he wants to be anywhere but here all of a sudden.

Lleyton’s hand is on his shoulder. Grounding. Reassuring. Again. The only one that can handle the birth of a dragon. That can make it go back to staying dormant.

“That’s tennis. You carry it your entire career. It doesn’t carry you. And Alex knows that. That’s why he’s a professional tennis player. And it’s not about guilt, Nick. It’s about responsibility. Let him handle his part,” and then he brings himself closer, as if sharing something sacred and bare. “You have your own part. You can be the archery to his cavalry.”

And he’s leaving, the residue of his comforting physical presence tingles Nick’s shoulder. A seal of an obligation made.

He can clear the court for Alex. He can. Fighting for home. To bring peace. To bring solution to this hell it’s been consumed by.

The dragon inside him still rumbles. _But he’s mine._

*

In his hotel room he browses through the news constantly. The images don’t change. No salvation in sight. No relief. But he needs to soak it all, like penance, like strange kind of baptism. Like he is with these people there, helping, doing, something, anything.

The helplessness feeds restlessness and sizzling anger inside. But he clings to it. Because anger is better than numbing despair, that’s also there, beneath the layers of red, threatening to make him fall to pieces.

“Hi, mom,” he calls Norlaila. Every evening. Feels like he’s been on the other side of the planet, even if home is only few hours away. The air smells different here (fresh, clear, free) as if the whole country is not in mourning, choking, on smog or tears or both.

“Hi, baby. You’re doing amazing out there. We’re so very proud of you,” her voice brings the despair more on the surface. Ache, homesickness. He misses her, he misses home. Sometimes it feels like him being anywhere else but there is a betrayal and he just wants to leave everything and go. Be with them. And then what? Wait for it to pass?

“How are you? How’re things?” he manages to sound composed. Moisture in the corner of his eyes stays in too.

“Good. Good. You know. Busy. But it’s all hands on board so we’re managing pretty well,” she’s been working in animals shelters, helping out, on the front lines, fully invested, as she always is. All heart and selflessness.

“Mom…,” one word brimming with meaning, he pours everything into it. And she knows how to read it. She always knew. His cheeks are wet now.

“Don’t you worry, Nick. You do your thing. All that money you won for us. For people here. Some neighbours brought pies. So hey, we’re waiting for our local hero to get back here in triumph and eat those. King’s too old and grumpy to steal your food like he used to, ” the sound of her chuckle makes the tears fall even more. He sniffles to the sleeve of his hoodie and feels small, insignificant and alone.

“It feels like it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. When I’m at home I’m losing my mind, when I’m here I feel like I’m helpless and too far away and not doing anything to change things,” the words spill along with that saltiness on his face. A stream of fears, insecurities and worries. He’s mumbling and sniffling in between, but he knows she will hear him and understand him. In her heart. Her heart will hear his heart with everything he feels too much, all at once. She’s always there, embracing it, mending it, keeping it whole.

Like she is now.

“Oh, sweetie. What are you talking about? You brought all these people together. For the whole month they will be our saviors and it’s you. You are the heart of it all. You’re doing everything you can and it’s so much, Nick. The only reason we want you back home is because we miss you, when you’re not here.”

He can’t speak for a while there. He’s overflowing, with fear, with insecurity, with ache. It’s everything at once, like it is with him often and the wave of emotions knocks the breath off his lungs and fills him up with choked sobs.

She probably knows. Or senses. And fills up this tensed silence for him.

“So, we were thinking about adopting a baby kangaroo from one of the shelters. Can you imagine King’s _y’all went crazy_ face? Quincy would be all up for it. The more the merrier with her. But poor King. The one baby I’m nursing back to health has big, soulful eyes and is so cuddly. I was thinking to him, _hey little fella you totally belong with the clan. You remind me of my son a lot._ ”

He falls asleep to her gentle voice soothing him into safety and reassurance, like it used to when she was reading him stories about magical heroes paving the paths to splendor and salvation with blood and sacrifices.

But the splendor and salvation did come in the end.

*

In the end he doesn’t even have to play Nadal and Nadal still breaks him. Scatters the archery into pathetic pieces.

Nick sees him. Beaming, strong, shining so bright with this power within. The dragon inside him caves in for the bull. It feels like it’s been so long, too long, the last time they clashed and Nick forgot how to tame the bull, how to set the dragon on him.

Nadal sits in Spain’s box, his gaze heavy and focused, on the game. A strategist. Always there to share his tactics, to bring the team together into invincible armada of conquering heroes. Envy and ache inside him stir, making the dragon rumble. Nick feels the gaze on his skin, that is raw and exposed. No scales there to protect him. And Nick falls to pieces on his own serve. His biggest weapon, this bow and his arrows, gets knocked out of his hand upon the first game. He’s defenseless. Scared and furious and it pours out of him in red that doesn’t sound like roars of an enraged dragon should, but whimpers of a boy in the dark.

The scar tissue remains. Even when Nadal leaves to prepare himself for that ritual sacrifice that’s coming. He leaves so quick, maybe assuming this part of the battle is already lost. And he never treats his opponents as lesser, weaker, so he’s going to get himself ready to give his all, to throw the beastly wrath of the bull at Alex.

Alex who’s bled out. Alex who’s scarred. Alex who’s acting like he’s made of iron and thinks Nick doesn’t see him wincing in pain.

The scar tissue remains and Nick falls apart.

“Finish the points by the net. Don’t get involved in the rallies. He’s ready to go on for ages. Don’t play on his forehand, he’s got Nadal to prep him for that. Remember, arrows. Quick service game. The distance doesn’t matter. There’s still whole set to go and then the 3rd one. And then the cavalry comes,” he can hear Lleyton’s words like over the glass wall. There’s white noise inside his ears. He remembers yelling at Ash. Feels raw. Feels exposed. Pathetic. The dragon turns away from him. There are only whimpers of helplessness and defeat there.

The hubris grows like mould and soon it covers the whole surface of the monument made of gold. So that it doesn’t even look like gold anymore.

The cavalry. He’s supposed to take the burden off Alex. Clear the field. Make it less straining.

Not against this gladiator. Not against this warrior. Whatever he would do, the bloodshed would still be inevitable.

And so it was.

*

Alex marches to the team room, distanced, locked inside himself. Nick walks by his side, like on autopilot, like he’s empty inside. They are rag dolls.

His head is ringing with silence. The worst feeling. He’s so used to the noise, it’s started to feel familiar by now. The silence is terrifying. The silence is unknown. Like that creature lurking in the dark you don’t yet see but sense.

No one says anything, deepening this darkness, making Nick choke no longer on helplessness but fear. Fear is something he’s been living with his entire life so it almost brings relief. He dares to reach out, to touch Alex’s shoulder. A shy gesture seeking forgiveness, seeking confirmation. _You with me?_

But Nick wasn’t. When Alex needed him the most. He wasn’t. So how can he expect a response. How does he dare?

Alex is better than that. Alex is better than all of them. That’s why he puts his hand on Nick’s palm, gripping his shoulder now, and it’s enough of a confirmation. Even if wordless. Even if devoid of eye contact. _Till the end of the line._

Nick can breathe again. Breathe again through burning throat.

*

They use words. They name things out loud. When everyone leaves and they stay behind like then, ages ago, when they were soaring into golden glory that concealed mould covered hubris.

“Fuck, man. I’m …,” Nick can’t say it. It’s so cliché. It’s pointless. It’s naming the helplessness and exposing it for ugly, pathetic thing it is.

Alex is sitting weird. Leaning backwards, against the wall, massaging his stomach. His expression is drained, but Nick thinks he sees hurt there. Physical hurt. Is this a leftover of trying to take on raging bull with bare hands? Or is this a lionheart bleeding for the country nonstop for the last few days?

Either way, guilt spreads like burning acid inside Nick.

“It feels so long ago. When we thought we’re on top of the world,” Alex words out his thoughts. Like he often does. Like they are wired.

“For you it does. You carried the entire team.”

“We’re packing up, so I didn’t carry jack squat,” there is fatigue in his voice. No resignation. He will keep it inside and battle with it inside. Because he doesn’t lose. No. Others just win, making him want to go back stronger and better.

“Bullshit. You… you lifted us up, Demon. You… lifted me up. It was unreal. Like I never played tennis like this. I never thought I can,” he’s mumbling to his hand. Cheesy, crappy talk. Calling things like that by their name is inadequate, always falls flat.

“That’s crap, Nick. You always can play tennis like that. It’s just all in your head, you punk,” Alex is lifting himself up, heavy and slow. Unlike himself. Drained (cut and bled out after all). There’s something wrong. He looks like he really left his heart out there.

“It’s true. It’s fucking true. You make me a better tennis player, man, ditto,” this is pleading, this is an apology. Because in the end the blood they spilled is on Nick’s hands.

Alex is taking off his shirt, fussing by the locker, getting ready to shower. Moves still lagging. Striking proof of the act they’ve committed together. Of that butchery.

“You’re so cheesy, man. We should do matching tattoos. Fire and ice? Or me the crown, you demon face, huh?” Alex is chuckling, towel in his hand, half joking mirth making his eyes creak. Davis Cup tattoo on his chest, visible on his pale skin. Australia’s lionheart through and through. Nick’s tattoos have their stories, too. But it’s so telling that Alex chose this one simple thing, right where his heart is beating for the country, for this sport. The very core of him. What he’s made of. Loyalty, love and commitment.

Nick is at loss of words for a moment there. Waiting for his voice to come back to him, without breaking.

“I’m in if you are,” he then says. Completely serious. The memories will stay forever in his heart but he wants their story told on his skin, too. To look at it and remember. Always.

“Win that Oz first, Nick,” Alex’s moving in the direction of the hall, winking at him, even if there are bags under his eyes. Body hunching, bending under the weight of the war they are leaving behind.

“Did you mean you?” Nick snorts. Bitter but amused. That’s delusional. He’s alone out there, on the bench, with nothing but these creatures wearing faces of his fears to taunt him. He has no arrows. And there is no cavalry coming.

Alex stops on his way out, to face Nick. Thoughtful. Eyes warm and somehow beseeching. “Listen. When it’s get hard out there, remember what you told me. How you felt here. Remember your best tennis and go off in Melbourne,” as if sharing Nick’s thoughts again he pulls them onto the surface like this poignant pact between them.

Nick wants to ask what’s this about. Alex is their best man, Alex is their hero, Alex is going to Melbourne with all the hopes to deliver home slam to the country. Right? But he doesn’t manage, because Alex is gone, moving to the showers and Nick desperately tries to pretend that he doesn’t see him limping.

*

They’re packed for Melbourne, no plans on staying to watch the final. Nick is bitter. Nick is angry. It’s fucking Novak of all people. Fighting the battle to secure his dominance all over here. He doesn’t think of Nadal reaching the last stage of this bloody war, as predicted, as expected. After the sacrifice they’ve made.

Because what other results there could be.

Even if the dragon inside him might be still murmuring. _But he’s mine._

He’s in the lounge near the entrance, with his bags, equipment already carried to the van. He’s tempering with his phone, browsing through music, reaching for headphones around his neck to sink into the world of blessed desolation when he sees him.

Nadal’s in red. Proud and devoted. Like they are to their green and gold, even if Nick’s a civilian now, hiding in his black hoodie. Dishonoured. Nadal’s wearing his match gear, like he’s never not in the mode to fight, to conquer, to win. To play his tennis. His best tennis. His unreachable tennis. (Even if they put cracks on this unbreachable tower. Even if they could tumble it.) He’s probably going to the gym. If he’s not there, he’s on courts, training. Always fucking training. Shaping himself into ancient hammer neither arrows nor cavalry can defeat.

The dragon hums. Awakened. Now, he is. Now, when the battle is over for them.

“Nick,” Nadal nods, curtly. A casual greeting. Like he would anyone else. Always proper. Always respectful. The dragon lifts his head up to snap his jaws hungrily.

Nick stops him with a hand on his forearm. The skin feels strong. Like made of steel. An ancient hammer after all. Nick’s hand stays there and Rafa doesn’t shake it.

He’s looking at Nick, an epitome of calm, curious and maybe a little bit confused. The dragon inside Nick is hissing now. To tear this apart. To see the bull raging, like he did yesterday, tearing their soldier apart. A message. _You dare to hound me?_

“What would have happened, if I was in that match?” he reluctantly withdraws his hand (the warmth Nadal’s skin leaves under his fingertips disturbs him or at least, affects him). The dragon now purrs.

“All your ifs, Nick. There are no ifs. There is what happened. And there is what not. Everything else doesn’t matter,” Nadal says, nauseously pragmatic and on point. Always. Chipping that tower away from steel seems nearly impossible. On court and off court.

“He took you to three sets,” Nick continues. Stubborn. A petulant child, even if he feels like provoking a challenge.

“He did. He’s a fighter. It doesn’t surprise me. I wouldn’t expect nothing less from him,” but Nadal responds with a challenge of his own. So there is knocking on that fortress. There is rattling the bull. Nick remembers the thrill. Of facing the rally with him. Nick suddenly longs, and it’s violent and intense, missing the feeling of tension, anticipation and eagerness. And he realizes how long it’s been. The dragon now whimpers.

“I would have you in straight sets,” he sounds hoarse and the words take on different meaning, heavy and thick on his tongue.

Nadal keeps up the pace, like he would in the rally. Pinning him to corners. Or drawing him to the net. “You would? Still packing up and leaving for Melbourne though, si?” his eyebrow is raised. There’s a light tone to his voice, but his eyes peer into Nick’s like they would across the net.

“It’s not your surface. It’s mine. And I know exactly which buttons to push to play you there,” he feels daring. Like when the ball flies high, spins fast and hits the strings with vicious solidity he can utilize into unreturnable force and accuracy.

Nadal watches him for a while, before he answers. The dragon is fully awakened and hungry now. It wants to feed on the red in front of him.

“Would have, could have, if,” there’s a sing-song tone to Nadal’s voice. Mockery. Making Nick want to hiss with his mouth, not the jaws of the creature inside him this time. “Prove it then. Maybe we meet in Melbourne. Be there. With your tennis, Nick. Not words,” and Nadal is leaving for the training section of the compound, not looking back. Definite. Undisputable.

For a moment there, Nick wants to follow, as if his presence is so commanding, so strong, Nick caves in to submission. His skin is warm, the dragon restless, teased with red to sink his teeth in, now denied. For the time being.

There’s resolve though settling down in Nick. Breaking the mould he seems to be covered with after hubris spat them out. Making him feel like anchored in purpose.

_It’s a challenge, then._

*

The Oz draw is announced the same day Alex withdraws. It all cumulates into this sharp resolve, expanding in him, making him grow scales, making him breath fire again. Guilt over Alex (that promise he made), the money they raised for home (it’s not over, hope is there on the horizon to grab to share to keep, though) and that challenge emerging from the thick construction of match-ups, leaving them on the field to meet (on that hard surface Nick reigns on) to battle.

The resolve stays rooted inside him. For days to follow, leading up to day one in Melbourne.

And the dragon doesn’t go to sleep anymore. The dragon waits to the rhythmical thumb of his heart, shaping into: _he’s mine._


End file.
